edge of empire
by wonderstance
Summary: Desolation of Smaug. There are no empires built overnight. Legolas learns this the hard way.


**note**: not much to say except I'm shameless.  
Also if Peter Jackson can create Tauriel…  
Also I don't attempt to emulate JRR Tolkien's genius because that would be a tragedy.

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**title**: edge of empire  
**summary**: Desolation of Smaug. Legolas had a penchant for reason and justice. She had a penchant for pissing him off.  
**chapter 1**: i see fire

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Legolas shouldn't have been even remotely surprised that Tauriel had decided to disobey and run. She had always been a handful, and patriarchy and obedience wasn't quite her forte. This displeased him greatly because, after all, he'd always considered himself an elf of logic and reasoning. The kind of elf who acted—and _lived_ with the relentless thought that there was always something on the line, even if there was absolutely nothing on the line. But Tauriel wasn't. She was robust, _passionate_—and not that he would ever admit aloud, far more intuitive than he was.

So he couldn't quite explain why he decided to take leave and follow her path.

It couldn't have been her charm; after all, that was a skill that relied on generalities and backhanded flattery disguised as genuine compliments. Tauriel was far too honest, far too proud, and her character was defined by skills derived from labor and hard work—charm was a skill that was born in darkness, desperation—and a mad audience. The sort of skill that shone in a world so full of ignorance and gluttony—the sort of skills that made it simple to sweet talk any simple _man_ or _dwarf_. The sort of skill that could probably save a life in the long run.

There was a break in the path. Legolas hesitated, and kneeled down.

There was Tauriel's path—trace footsteps overlapping over heavy orc imprints. Remnants she'd left going down along the edge of the river.

The alternate route led straight into the forest. Orcs—but they were following something—_someone_. Judging by the rampant mess, they were in a rush, probably on the edge of desperation. Whoever they were chasing had something they needed. These were older footprints, so Tauriel must've just missed them on her quest for the dwarves. Her fascination with them was something he couldn't possibly understand. If their history with the dwarves were any indicator, then Tauriel's fascination would inevitably melt into resentment and most likely—hatred, in the end.

A scream pierced the air.

Legolas broke from his thoughts and snapped his gaze to the forest.

* * *

It didn't take him long to find the culprit.

It was one orc, standing a small distance from a young woman—a black haired, dark-eyed—a _girl_ who couldn't have been anywhere past her twenties. Legolas observed a deep gash engraved into the side of her face, blood seeping shades of maroon into the hollows of her cheeks. The kind of cut that would scar for the entirety of her very short, _human_ lifetime. It took him a moment to realize she wasn't the one screaming.

Next to her feet, an orc thrashed about, writhing wildly, splitting his skin of his forehead into ribbons with his fingernails digging deep; his shrieks pierced the air while his blood bled into the sockets of his open eyes. Even Legolas had to admit that he couldn't have expected anything quite like this. This kind of strange sorcery—it wasn't anything he ever read about in books, or learned about in training.

"What have you done to him, _witch_?"

She smiled—a sort of curious smile, "Oh, how unfair—a _witch_? Is that what you think of me?"

It took her less than a second for her to grab his blade, the rust tearing apart the delicate skin in between her thumb and index finger. The orc involuntarily leaned forward, face deathly close to hers as she whispered into his ear, "A witch," the smile on her face disappeared and faded into a semblance of a grimace, "I am but a mere human, you sad, _pitiful_ creature. No fear, friend. I will be the one to put you out of your miserable existence today."

She lifted her free hand and blew a small cloud of dust into his face. He fell to the ground with a thud, eyes still open—body still and unmoving. She released his axe and allowed it to fall in proximity to his body.

"I know you're watching, _elf_," she said.

Legolas pursed his lips and stepped out from behind the tree he had been lurking behind. Ever so cautious, he raised his bow.

She was small—most humans were. If he caught her in passing, he would've mistook her for a child. She had the kind of youthful face to pass off as a mere teen; her doe-eyes screamed innocence but Legolas knew better than anyone that it was generally the small, unobtrusive traits that could be the death of any man or _elf_. What was the silly saying about never judging a book by its cover? Legolas could recite the fable of that moral backwards. He sensed something sinister about her, but it was difficult for him to place a finger on what it was.

"What have you done to him?" He asked.

"An eternal dreamland, you could say," she replied dispassionately, "I sent him to a place where he won't want to wake up."

Legolas decided to follow out of curiosity, glancing at the orc writhing on the ground, still shrieking, "And the other?"

"A nightmare," she replied with the same indifference as before. She didn't elaborate.

A pause formed between them.

"So are you going to shoot me now?" She asked him, rather bemused, "You aren't curious to know if I stand as friend or foe?"

The string of Legolas' bow stretched taut as he narrowed his gaze curiously to the side of her face, "Where's your cut?"

"Cut?" She echoed his tone of disbelief with a half smile.

It was true. The cut on the side of her face was completely gone, with only her blood as a remnant of proof that there had been any kind of wound there in the first place. Legolas averted his gaze to the small patch of skin between her thumb and index finger that had been injured earlier by the orcs' axe—and he watched in horror and mild fascination as a fresh wave of skin patched and weaved over the wound like a spider web—until it was as if there had never been a wound in the first place.

"Who _are_ you?"

A monstrous screech echoed through the air. Legolas glanced up at the sky but there was no sign of movement.

"Ah, very clever—you have keen eyes, _elf_," she told him, "But I've run out of time. You see—I have an errand to run."

With that, she took off at a sprint and left him with her final parting words: "Can you _feel_ Smaug?"

Legolas' arrow ripped through the air, piercing her through the tendon in her foot. He had no killing intent; he only wanted to stop her in her tracks. He thought briefly that he may have succeeded since she flinched momentarily.

But that was before she leaped over the edge of the cliff—

He watched as she was lifted into the sky by what seemed to be…a flying _salamander_.

_Can you feel Smaug_?


End file.
